Serenity is the Devil
by Das Tier
Summary: Preston is disturbed. By his partner, naturally. Platonic feelings implied


Title: Serenity is the Devil  
  
Author:DasTier [das_tier_99@yahoo.com]  
  
Fandom: Equilibrium  
  
Pairing: Preston/Partridge  
  
Rating: G at its generalness. Pre-slash, at best. [uh, maybe, *maybe* I'll write a sequel, hehe]  
  
Disclaimer states that the only legal profits this movie has brought, should belong to Miramax. I have nothing against that.  
  
He knew the name of the edifice. Its designation was blatant in the calm silence with which the nightly shades filled the ruined halls, the nave and the aisles. The last of daylight on the stone was red and bright, far brighter than on the fragments of glass that still lived in the contortion of steel frames. The glass was dusted and dirty to opaqueness that refused to admit any light.  
  
Somehow it was a challenge, an utmost perversion of its original purpose, and he considered that almost sacrilegious.   
  
He knew the name of the building that was hiding under dust, debris, and wild ivy. It could only be a church. Silent, it encircled him with its walls, half-ruined and gaping, and the ivy rustled over shallow niches, now empty, and the heads of saints, warriors and beasts that loured in the darkness, perched high on the columns' capitals under the Gothic ceiling. The emptiness where the altarpiece once was now yawned at him with a most ironic kind of detached boredom.  
  
"John?"  
  
He heard his partner approach carefully between disorderly heaps of rubbish where the age had reduced loose bricks to mere stone chippings. The bonds that once were strong had slackened; and the mortar that once cemented them was now but a cloud of dust.  
  
He sneezed. "Over here, Partridge."  
  
For a moment they froze side by side, gazing at the tall ruin of a wall that met their stare with its only surviving eye, round and still filled, between parts of its leaded frame, with coloured glass. The image, if there ever was any, was destroyed beyond recognition; or it might well be, he mused disinterestedly, that they had no parallel to identify it as.  
  
Their black coats were no longer black. Dust had settled on them freely, indiscriminate enough to form whimsical patterns where only one colour was supposed to be. Partridge, being blond, was the less to suffer, but he, the victim of his dark complexion, was now a piebald mockery of the immaculate clean Preston that had left Libria this morning for a raid in the Nether.  
  
A sudden squeal made him alert at once, and he nimbly grasped at his weapons only to realize he had run out of ammo. That didn't affect him, however, as his certainty in his partner never failed.  
  
"You're broke today, aren't you?" He steadied his hand holding the gun as his partner rammed in a new cartridge. "And you're nervous. It was only a weather-vane, John." Partridge tilted his head and smelled the air. "Southern wind."  
  
The clouds cleared for an instant, and the setting sun burst in through the carcass of the roof and landed in golden patches on the debris and the two figures standing amidst it. He lowered the hand with the gun and with the other shielded his vision against the waning light.  
  
"Blood," stated Partridge with slight surprise.  
  
Indeed. He hadn't been aware of the thin stream of blood that was trickling down his cheek from the temple where a rioter's stone had grazed the skin. It was hardly big enough to be called a wound; and if it hurt, it was mostly due to the disgrace of being hit by a crude stone being hurled by an equally crude hand, despite all his training and expertise.  
  
"Ill luck, that's all."  
  
"...which could have taken your life. The man must have a marksman's eye. Or rather, have had," his partner corrected himself, remembering the bodies splayed on the church's steps.  
  
He could find no reason why those people had chosen to seek shelter in this ruin of a building, where only the ribs of the vaulted arches hinted at the strength and beauty that once were there. Ashes to ashes, he whispered inaudibly thinking about the cruel irony that had driven the rioters to meet their death in the place they believed to be a door to heavens.  
  
"It was only an accident," he protested weakly.  
  
"As is often death, to the one that doesn't ask for it." Partridge shrugged under his amazed stare. "Survival isn't a crime. And neither is fear, or caution."  
  
He tucked the gun into the holster, deliberately silent to the point of effrontery. He was cautious. His vigil never ceased, his barriers never faltered. He always had a tight grip on both his guns and his life, tight enough not to be lectured by even his partner. Momentarily his head felt dizzy, perhaps with the belated reaction to the hit, or with the sudden motley of colours that seemed to come to life wherever sunlight touched the stone and plaster.  
  
Despite his will he wavered and leaned heavily on Partridge's arm. The face of some forgotten saint stared at him, and the age-blurred features seemed to be laughing at his weakness, so unbecoming to a Cleric. He found himself staring back defiantly even when his legs had become steadfast again. One eye of the saint was rubbed out, and the face seemed to be winking, as if teasing Preston with a secret he would never be able to learn.  
  
"What are you doing?" His voice sounded a pitch higher than usual when his skin registered a gentle touch that broke his focus.  
  
"You can't go back to the city looking such a mess." Partridge, unmoved in his determination even by the covert panic in the partner's voice, continued to wipe the blood off Preston's cheek. "Just imagine what a slur that would be for our reputation."  
  
He stood motionless, obedient, feeling how the handkerchief rubbed against the skin on his temple, traced down the cheekbone following the red path of the bleeding, lingered lightly in the curve of his mouth. Disturbed by the rubbing, however gentle it was, the abrasion on his skin began to sting, and he winced.  
  
"Hurts?"  
  
"Not really."  
  
"The blood's got dry already."  
  
Before his half-closed eyes could follow the movement, he sensed his partner lean closer to lick the rust-coloured spot of congealed blood in the corner of his mouth.  
  
"Here, now it'll come off easier," reported Partridge as if he hadn't done anything out of the ordinary.  
  
He watched the littered floor through the slit of his narrowed eyelids, not caring where the boldness with which he had only moments ago defied the saint's taunting gaze had now gone. The weather-vane was spinning as the wind picked up speed, and its screech was a hoarse laughter of disdain as it watched the black-clad Cleric lean into the hand that was supporting his head while the other softly rubbed the dirt and blood off his face.  
  
"Now, that's much better." Finished, Partridge stepped back to appreciate his effort. "Save but the dust."  
  
He blinked himself into focus, suddenly aware of the windy chill of the evening and the late hour. They had been out too long, and his body was signaling to its master with whatever means left to it that it was high time he took care of its needs. He looked at his partner and nodded, then took a short step towards him. Stretched out his hand, touched one unruly strand of light-coloured hair. Re-arranged it as it should be - one sleek, combed up mass.  
  
"You're in disorder, too."  
  
He chose to think about it as a response lunge, much like he would retaliate the opponent's thrust in combat. It was only a matter of balance, after all.  
  
When they were leaving the church, walking easily through the debris, his partner as usual a step behind, his mind was again serene. 


End file.
